


i don't have much in my life (but take it, it's yours)

by orphan_account



Series: various drabbles [24]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-17
Updated: 2014-08-17
Packaged: 2018-02-13 12:34:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2150901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He waves a hand towards Bucky’s body. “You should talk forever, and never wear a shirt. Like, ever.”</p><p>He giggles, and says he’s not really that much to look at. But Steve has none of it, and tells him that he’s like something stolen from one of those Chapels in the Vatican, but not with the little leaf for a dick. “At least,” Steve laughs. “I hope not.”</p><p>Bucky rolls his eyes, but tells him he hopes he’s into lettuce.</p>
            </blockquote>





	i don't have much in my life (but take it, it's yours)

**Author's Note:**

> I'm a fuckin' nerd.
> 
> Title stolen from The Smith's song "Unlovable".
> 
> Yell at me on [tumblr](http://buckybaarnes.co.vu).

This time he’s wearing freaking _suspenders_.

The kid from the bookstore likes to dress strangely. On Monday, he was wearing a too big green sweater that sagged off his shoulder, revealing a little starfish tattoo on his shoulder blade. He likes wearing skinny jeans too, but they always end up looking a couple sizes small, given the way they hitch up his calves a few inches too high.

But as he said, _suspenders_.

Bucky’s sort of developed a new habit. Every day, he likes to see what the guy is wearing. Whether it be ribbons in his floppy blond hair, or that time he wore a really cute stripy dress with one of those Harley jackets. Or if it’s those god damn sparkly suspenders holding up high-waisted acid wash jeans and a too big Smiths shirt showing off the Japanese lettering on his other shoulder.

God, Bucky’s screwed. He takes a sip of his coffee and turns his attention back to the book in his lap.

Too quickly he’s glancing back up at the guy reaching to the highest shelves on his tiptoes, flat converse Chucks not as beneficial as the platform Doc Martens he likes to wear with his little yellow jean shorts, or the cute mini-dress he wears with those shredded jeans that have Bucky drooling.

“You’re so damn smitten.”

Bucky glances up only to be bombarded with Nat’s sneering smirk. He groans and turns back to his book, noticing that he’s been on the same paragraph for the last half hour. At least his coffee’s almost finished; he can use that as an excuse.

So he rolls his eyes and tries to lie through his teeth. “I’m not smitten,” he says.

Nat doesn’t believe him. She snorts and grabs for his cup, downing the rest of it before pushing it back to him.  “He’s in my psych,” she murmurs, twiddling her thumbs and peering up at him from under thick lashes.

“Yeah?” Bucky hopes he doesn’t sound too excited or interested. He probably (completely) fails.

“Yeah, you want me to give him your number?”

Yeah, he really does. But at the same time, Bucky has his dignity to worry about. “Nope,” he says, biting the inside of his cheek so he doesn’t say give him it right now, hell, give him it ten years ago so we could’ve been weird together forever.

He’s so damn smitten.

Nat’s eyeing him with something like disbelief, something like patience, and a lot of contempt. After a moment, she clicks her tongue and pulls a twenty from her purse before slapping it on the table. He flinches a bit when she leans up into his space, red smile curved almost maliciously before she kisses his cheek and tells him to grow a pair and ask the guy to a concert.

Well, Bucky never said he was committed. Or brave.

*

Oh God, he’s back. And he tied his hair up into a pretty bun.

He comes in a lot, the mysterious guy, and every time he comes in his hair looks a little longer. It’s getting awfully close to his shoulders, curling at the ends and slightly lighter. It frames his face perfectly, the blonder parts of it pulling attention to his pretty blue-green eyes. His whole face is perfect, really. Steve never thought he’d go for the ‘manly’ stereotype, but this guy is like the crown jewel of that. Stubble, a smolder that could have him stripped to his Adventure Time undies in less than three seconds flat. The face would’ve been enough, but damn his body looks like it was carved out of stone by Michelangelo himself.

Jesus, that bun should be illegal.

Nick is probably going to yell at him for how often he stacks books by the café. No one ever buys novella about Brooklyn’s wildlife, or biographies about obscure fiction writers from DUMBO. Sam’s already caught him twice, and Steve had to lie through his teeth to derail attention from the way Steve’s angling his body towards the guy in the café, how he’s hiding a stiffy under four layers of pretty chiffon clothes and ripped band t-shirts from a much larger than him ex-boyfriend.

“Jesus Christ, again?” And on cue, here’s his lecture.

Steve spins on his heel, uncaring that a couple of books spill onto his toes and the corners dig into his skin. Sam’s giving him his ‘I know something you don’t know eyes’ and it’s creeping Steve the fuck out, so he just raises an eyebrow and pretends that his knock-off Lou Vuittons aren’t killing his feet as he squats to pick up his mess.

His sweeping his hand over a wrinkled page as he replies, “Not again, Sam, not ever.” Except for every time the guy shows up Steve’s mouth goes dry and he feels hot all over.

“Yeah, well, if you’re keepin’ on that denial thing you’ve got going on, then you definitely wouldn’t want to hear about how that guy, James, by the way, is totally into you?”

Okay, Steve can admit a little weakness. He looks up at Sam with what could only be hope. “Really?”

James, that’s a nice name. Steve never figured the guy would have a conventional name; maybe something like Cliff or Rainbow. Y’know, weird shit guys make up in college to stand out from the other long haired guitar playing beefcakes. He tells himself he’s not going to try and test it on his tongue, but he knows that’s bullshit the minute he thinks it.

“Want me to give him your number?”

“Yeah,” Steve replies, not even bothering to think about it.

He tries not to grin too hard when he goes back to stacking books. He fails.

*

“Jesus fuck, Nat! I can dress myself, it’s not like I’m going to a fuckin’ fashion show.”

Natasha stands behind him, his hair limp in her fingers, glaring at him in the mirror. Damn, he’s going to remind himself to never let her set him up with anyone again. Granted, he looks pretty fucking good, but still.

“Nat, do I really need the flower crown?” he asks, eyeing the contraption speculatively.

She just huffs and twirls a strand of his hair around her finger before letting it trail alongside his cheekbone. “Have you seen Steve?” she asks, taking a glob of that-what did she call it? She globs a dollop of that foaming stuff onto the ends of his hair and scrunches, making it stand up in weird curls. “He digs that nouveaux chic crap, but he can work it.”

“He really can,” Bucky replies, smiling without really noticing it.

“You’re so smitten,” she bites back.

“I know.”

Steve’s totally going to like his hair.

*

“You look fine, Stevie.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks, pinning his bangs back with the little butterfly clips he bought from the thrift store. He’s dressed relatively normal, considering his tastes. Just a pair of torn jeans and a baggy striped sweater with a cat asking him if he can “Dig it?”. He turns in the mirror; Steve has a flat ass and he knows it, jeans almost never work for him. “What if he doesn’t like my butt?”

Sam just groans and goes back to munching on whatever it was that he stole from Steve’s kitchen.

Hopefully James is not expecting a lot; Steve knows he’s nothing much to look at, which is partially why he dresses so flamboyantly. Of course, he definitely loves how he dresses. It takes a certain type of guy to pull off baggy gym shorts with an Armani suit jacket and a pair of Marvel patent pumps he found online for twelve dollars. He’s that certain type of guy.

God, he hopes James is into his type. He scratches at the back of his head, looking at his clear skin and too big eyes; he looks like a doll, but he doesn’t like to. Especially not when his stubble comes in and just throws off the whole look.

“Sam, I don’t look good.”

“You look awesome,” Sam says, nonchalantly turning the page of his Flash comic and crunching on more of Steve’s food. “If we weren’t like brothers I’d take you out dancing.”

“Thanks.”

Maybe his ass looks all right.

*

Oh, he looks good. Like, _really_ good.

Bucky should’ve taken more time to get dressed, he should’ve put on a suit or something. Hell, even the restaurant Nat told him to be at by seven is too fancy for a pair of black jeans patched with faux leather and a fucking flower crown.

Well, at least he’ll stand out.

Steve, on the other hand, stands out in a good way. He’s not dressed much differently than usual, but he’s absolutely stunning. The tight jeans he’s wearing just bring attention to how damn thin he is, but damn he’s sports a nice figure. Narrow hips, long, long legs despite his puny stature, and the Japanese characters on his shoulder are visible from here, given how much his sweater’s sagging.

He’s waving at him, oh god, he’s _waving_ and _smiling_.

Bucky smiles and forces himself to smile back, but he knows it turns out looking more like a grimace going by the way Steve’s smile widens into a smirk. Bucky forces himself to walk to him, feeling that a hundred pairs of eyes are on him but knowing that only one is.

“Steve?” he asks, when he stops beside the vacant chair. Steve just kicks it out and waves a hand to him.

“James?” he replies.

Bucky wrinkles his nose; of course Nat would introduce him like that. “Ugh, no it’s Bucky,” he says, noticing the way Steve’s eyes crinkle with poorly concealed amusement. “And no, it’s not from something weird, my middle name’s Buchanan.”

Steve takes a sip of his water, wide baby blues sparkling up at Bucky as they sweep over him. He’s uncomfortable as hell, but he knows he’s doing just the same to Steve. God, he looks fantastic. He put little clips in his hair, and he wore the light blue plugs that Bucky likes the most. If he looks really close, Bucky thinks he’s wearing mascara, but maybe Steve’s eyelashes are just that fucking long.

“You look really good,” he blurts out without thinking.

Steve’s eyes widen, then he honest to god blushes. Jesus, Bucky’s going to have a heart attack at the ripe age of twenty-two. He’s going to be the first. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“So do you,” Steve replies, and Bucky can feel himself blushing in turn.

This is more awkward than his first date. Eventually, thankfully, a waiter comes by to take their orders, but another waiter comes by later to drop off a bottle of champagne. When Steve says they didn’t order any, the man just gestures towards the bar where a _very_ familiar redhead, and a black guy looking more amused than is really necessary are giving them matching Cheshire grins.

He’s so going to kill her.

When Steve reaches for the bottle, the waiter catches his wrist and asks for his age. To which, Bucky is pleased to notice, Steve gives an almost painful looking eye roll before making a show of pulling out his wallet and pronouncing himself as an honest twenty-one year old American.

“Thanks for bringing it by,” he says, when the waiter turns his eyes on Bucky with something like disbelief.

He disappears after that, and later a waitress comes by to drop off their food.

Three glasses of too fancy champagne in, Steve’s starting to loosen up a bit, and so is Bucky. The giggle like morons at absolutely nothing, gossip like old hens about Nat and Sam, talk about each other’s butts and how damn fantastic they are (but especially Steve’s because damn, son).

They eat their food and exchange dumb jokes, talk about growing up in DUMBO (Bucky) and in Greenwich (Steve), and Bucky blinks in surprise when he learns of the kid’s apparent wealth.

Steve just grins and tells him that he’s not rich, just his stepdad. “Ma got married about a year after dad kicked it,” he says, biting into his third burger. “I was seven, so the difference was a little strange. The other boys used to make fun of the accent.”

Bucky tells him that he very much likes the accent.

“Nah, I like yours more,” Steve replies. He waves a hand towards Bucky’s body. “You should talk forever, and never wear a shirt. Like, ever.”

He giggles, and says he’s not really that much to look at. But Steve has none of it, and tells him that he’s like something stolen from one of those Chapels in the Vatican, but not with the little leaf for a dick. “At least,” Steve laughs. “I hope not.”

Bucky rolls his eyes, but tells him he hopes he’s into lettuce.

All in all the date goes great. Steve ends up footing the bill, though not after Bucky threatens to just take it and run to the lady at the lectern ushering the guests in. Nat and Sam eventually leave, but not before stopping at their table and telling them they look like they’re having a great time.

Steve snorts when Sam tells him that he better not come home.

“Fuck you,” he says, lips turned up in a wide smirk. “I do what I want.”

“Yeah, whatever, Captain Ka-wa-ii,” Sam replies, enunciating each syllable. He nods at Nat, before giving Bucky a mockup of a glare (that Bucky’s not so sure is a mockup) and tells him he better take care of Steve.

“You need taking care of, asslamp,” Steve bites back.

“Bye,” Natasha intercedes, dragging Sam out by his hand and making a show of thanking the hostess.

*

Bucky’s a lot more awesome than Steve thought he’d be.

Granted, he set the bar pretty damn high, but Bucky blew it right out of the fucking water. He showed up looking amazing in leather pants that clung to his ass for dear life. Even The Neighbourhood shirt he was wearing wasn’t worthy of complaint and condescension because it was clinging tight to defined pectorals that had Steve’s mouth watering for more than just the food.

They leave the restaurant together, awkwardly kicking at the sidewalk as their hands brush against each other. Bucky says there’s a concert going on downtown, but Steve would much rather invite him back to his place so they can cuddle and watch Harry Potter movies together.

He’s a fucking mess, is what he is.

As it turns out, however, Bucky just wants to hang out too. So they end up going to an ice cream parlor, where Bucky buys them double scoops of mint chocolate chip ice cream. They talk about growing up in Brooklyn, about idolizing the great authors and artists. Steve offers to go on a walk through the park, which Bucky agrees to.

Bucky grabs his hand when they walk over a bridge with lanterns decorating the railing.

They talk about astronomy there, and Steve feels like he’s in one of those teenage movies. They talk about art; apparently Bucky’s majoring in painter’s theory, and Steve asks him about that. They lay down on a sheet of rock near the creek, fingers entwined and cheeks flushed, and Bucky traces his finger over the stars as he explains how to contour features on a person’s face.

Then he leans over Steve with a grin.

“Like here,” he says, drawing his finger down the side of Steve’s face. “I’d use a hell of a lot of violet because you’ve got these great eyes.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Bucky murmurs. He moves his hand down to cup Steve’s chin, breath puffing over Steve’s lips as his thumb touches his lower lip. “And here I’d use red, because you’ve got real puffy lips.”

“Hmm.”

“And here,” he says, leaning in close. His lips are warm where they brush over Steve’s temple. “I’d use gold, because you’ve got all this pretty blond hair.”

“Oh.”

They don’t kiss until later, under the moon in front of Steve’s building. They walk back pressed flush side to side, Bucky’s jacket flung over Steve’s shoulders. He tries not to be a creep and sniff at it, but he ends up doing it right in front of Bucky, and it’s awkward as hell.

That’s when he cups his face and plants one right on his mouth.

It lasts hardly a minute, but Steve finds himself arching up into it. There’s no tongue, nothing too heated really, and it’s rather plain for a first kiss. Still, Bucky’s hand is warm as it slides from his face to his hair, the thumb of his other hand soft where it swipes over the skin on the underside of Steve’s jaw. His chest is hot, his stubble is excellent, and his eyes are beautifully hooded when he pulls away.

Steve thinks he’s in love.

“Would you like to come in?”

Bucky frowns, but he’s still smiling. “I, uh, don’t really do that sorta thing right away-”

“Oh God, that’s not how I-” Steve shakes his head and covers his face with his hands. Jesus, he sucks at dating; it’s no wonder why he hasn’t had a stable relationship since high school. “No, I just, uh, want to watch movies with you and maybe, um hear me out okay, build a blanket fort and giggle and cuddle… Fuck, I wouldn’t blame you if-”

Bucky swallows his words with another  kiss, then another three more. Then one to the cheek, and one to the shell of his ear, where he stops to murmur, “Yeah, let’s build a blanket fort.”

And so, they build a blanket fort.

And marathon the first three Harry Potter movies, before Steve falls asleep in Bucky’s arms. He wakes up at seven-thirty only to find that Bucky’s conked out on his shoulder. He’s so tempted to take a picture of his sleepy face, so he does, and the shutter wakes Bucky up and he blinks up at him so adorably that he just had to bend down to kiss him again.

“Good morning,” he says.

Bucky yawns, and pushes up to his elbow before grinning and leaning forward to kiss the side of Steve’s mouth, morning breath be damned. “Mornin’,” he replies against Steve’s lips.

*

“You’ve got a hickey here,” Steve says, running his finger down Bucky’s spine. He pauses every few inches to trace his fingertip out to his ribs and shoulder blades. “And here, and here, and here.”

Steve, unsurprisingly, doesn’t have a very big dick. Equally unsurprisingly, he’s great in bed. Like, amazing great. They flipped off after Steve rode three orgasms out of him, and Jesus does that guy know how to fuck.

Bucky reminds himself to never speak his thoughts in front of Steve.

Then he reminds himself to sing praises about Steve’s dick as often as possible.

“You’ve got a couple on your neck, dude,” Bucky says, turning on Steve’s arms and flicking one of the smaller ones towards his jugular. He bends down to kiss the reddened mark after, licking up Steve’s jawline to press a soft kiss to Steve’s lips. “And your lips are all kinds of red.”

“Uh-huh, tell me more Mr. Smooth,” Steve says, snorting when Bucky rubs his cold hands against Steve’s belly. “God, Buck, Nat’s gonna tease you.”

“It’s nothin’ new.”

“Yeah, but she’s gonna tease me too.”

“Good, she should tease you.” Bucky slides down the bed to lay his head against Steve’s chest. When he learned about his heart murmur and his asthma, he likes to know that he’s breathing just right and that he’s doing fine. He kisses the skin above his heart just for good measure. “You’re too coddled.”

“Oh look at the big man, reading his dictionary.”

“Shut up, punk.”

“Jerk.”

It’s been two months. Bucky’s never had a relationship he was committed enough to not notice that they hadn’t had sex until two months in. It’s rapturous, really, that he’d be perfectly fine with being with Steve even if they hadn’t had sex. Steve’s just… Bucky’s just that devoted to him.

It’s probably too early to say the three words he just doesn’t say, but God does he want to.

They sit in contented silence, tracing each other’s skin with curious fingers, exploring what they’ve seen but never really touched until last night. Steve’s so damn soft all over; he got a little shifty eyed when Bucky asked him if he used lotion, because he smells like that one frou-frou store Nat used to drag him into whenever she wanted to pretend he was her boyfriend and make him carry her hundreds of dollars’ worth of fancy sweatpants and frilly bras.

“Hey, Stevie?” he asks, turning up to peer at him. Steve looks down, but raises an eyebrow. Bucky buries his face in Steve’s chest when he asks, “Do you have any of those frilly undies? Like the ones they have at those fancy lingerie stores?”

Steve’s silence, and the brief stutter in his heart rate, tell him the answer is yes.

He doesn’t ask anymore but he wants to. Actually, he’s been wanting to get Steve to show him all of his clothes, because Steve looks damn cute all the time. Well, except when he looks damn hot, but usually that involves his leathers or that skimpy black dress he likes to wear with Bucky’s leather jacket and his goofy boxer shorts.

“Wanna see?” Steve breaks the silence, his fingers soft as they run through Bucky’s hair.

“Uh-huh.”

So Bucky gets to see the entirety of Steve’s extensive wardrobe. There’s everything from Armani suits, to Gucci pumps, to Doc Martens and Jimmy Choo. Junky torn up jeans that look like they belong more in Steve’s closet, cute knit cardigans and cartoon t-shirts. Shredded band shirts and cozy sweatpants. And then, the lingerie.

There’s corsets, lacy panties, A-cup bras with pretty frills and bows. He turns to Steve when he thumbs at a baby blue one, decorated in little pink polka dots and framed with a small frill.

“This one?” he asks. Bucky swallows and nods.

He turns as Steve dresses himself, though they were laid naked pressed front to front not five minutes ago. There’s the soft rustle of clothes being plucked from hangars, the quiet snip of clasps being fastened. It’s only when Steve’s hand runs between his shoulder blades that he turns and lets himself look.

And Steve’s a sight to behold.

His legs were always too long for his body, but the high rise of the string bikini panties he picked just enunciate how long and lean they are. His stomach is flat, but not too toned as to make the underwear look like they don’t belong. He’s flat chested, but the bra masks it. When his eyes finally reach Steve’s, he looks nervous, but completely comfortable. Used to it, Bucky realizes.

“You’re gorgeous,” he says, without really meaning to.

Steve just blushes though, and kicks his foot. “Yeah?”

And Bucky just has to kiss him. Again and again, before he reaches his hand back into the closet and pulls out his favorite dress, the baggy yellow paisley print one with the striped yellow and white fabric that cinches in at the waist. Then, he hands it to Steve, and reaches for the deep aquamarine jeans that are frayed at the knees.

When Steve takes them, he just tilts his head and gives Bucky this bemused look.

Bucky kisses him, and it just eats up more of his pretty face, so Bucky says what’s at the forefront of his mind.

And that just so happens to be, “I love you.”

Steve’s wide eyes get even wider. “Huh?” he asks, sounding lost, and a little scared. So Bucky slides his hands up to cup Steve’s face, and his leans forward to kiss his cheek.

“I love you,” he promises. “I love you, I love you, I love you.”

Again and again, he says it, liking how the words fit in his mouth when he knows they’re directed towards Steve. Meanwhile, Steve just hangs onto his elbows, confusion melting from his face one ‘I love you’ at a time. Bucky presses incremental kisses against his mouth, smiling and probably crying because he’s a fucking emotional bastard, yeah he knows, but he just wants to get it out there. He’ll scream it from the tallest building in Manhattan if Steve wishes it.

“I love you, too.”

“I love you.”

“Yeah, me too, Bucky.”

“I love you, Stevie.”

And they end up on the floor, the huddled mess that they are. Steve’s head is cradled against his chest, his arms warm around Bucky’s waist as he mumbles his confirmations over and over again. Bucky doesn’t know how long they sit like that, but they hear Sam come home from work.

They see him barge into the room and do a double take when he sees Steve half-dressed and Bucky completely nude on the floor in Steve’s closet.

“There’s a question I need to ask, but I’m not askin’ it until you two are dressed,” he says, And then, he ducks out of the room.

Neither of them says anything for several minutes after he closes the door. Bucky’s still as stone, still holding Steve up against his chest. Steve’s a quiet presence, trembling slightly in Bucky’s hold but pressing tight into his chest.

“I love you,” he says, smiling into Bucky’s skin.

“Ditto,” Bucky replies, kissing the top of Steve’s head.


End file.
